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Heartfelt Headlines, Melbourne (2026)

11/01/2026

This Monday, I got a text from the Marines. They were asking if Peyton wanted to join after he graduates next year.
I chuckled, felt a little sad, and texted back, thanking him for reaching out. I thanked him for his service and explained Peyton has special needs, so he wouldn't qualify. He replied, "No problem, Ma'am. Would Peyton like some stickers or a t-shirt?" I said Peyton would love a Marine t-shirt. He said he'd get one to him.
I thought he'd mail it. He didn't! He personally delivered Peyton's t-shirt today!
Meet Staff Sergeant Anthony Sandoval, United States Marine! Thank you, Sgt. Sandoval. You're a true Marine, and we're so glad to have met you!

11/01/2026

"I've loved you forever," my mother whispered to me shortly before she died, gently brushing my hair away from my face.
"I know, Mom," I answered, holding her frail hand and kissing the marks from her IV.
"You do?" she asked softly. "How do you know?"
"Because I've loved you just as long," I said.
In that moment, it was just us—mother and daughter—sharing something beautiful and eternal.
She wasn't an Alzheimer's patient struggling to maintain her dignity.
She wasn't a cancer patient consumed by fear or confusion.
She was simply my mom.
Doing what mothers do best—loving me, telling me so, and fixing my hair.
Months have passed since she passed, and as my first Mother’s Day without her approaches, memories of her flood my mind.
I think of her smile and how it could brighten any room. I think of her laughter and the many times we laughed until we cried—those silly giggles that made everything feel better.
I remember her rushing down the hallway on weekday mornings, looking for shoes, lipstick, or a scarf—whatever I had "borrowed" to feel grown-up at twelve or thirteen. I'm sure I tested her patience more than I knew.
I think of the years after my teenage days, when we became more than mother and daughter—when we became friends. We met for wine after work, went shopping, and talked every day about everything and nothing.
I think of how she was there when my son was born. Of the times I called her in tears, worried about the day he would leave for college. She would calmly remind me he was only two, or ten, or thirteen—and that when the time came, I would get through it. She was right.
I think of the day she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.
The drive to the neurologist’s office.
The anger in her eyes when the diagnosis was confirmed.
The moments she accused me of thinking she was "crazy."
The distant look that slowly deepened over time.
I think of the plaque building in her brain, of the difficult years before she no longer remembered the diagnosis.
I think of the day I learned she had terminal cancer—and the agonizing decision of whether to tell her.
I think of the weeks I spent living with her. Coloring together. Dancing to George Strait. Falling asleep hand in hand.
I think of her pain at the very end—and the battles I fought with healthcare workers who ignored her silent cues and withheld the morphine she so desperately needed.
I think of our final day at the beach, listening to The Beach Boys and Jimmy Buffett. I'm grateful she had the strength to visit our special place one last time.
Most of all, I think of how lucky I am.
Not only because she was my mother—but because I was spared watching her reach the final stages of Alzheimer’s, where speech, movement, and independence are lost. My prayer was answered, and something other than Alzheimer’s took her home, just six weeks after her cancer diagnosis.
I think of the millions of people who will wake up on Mother’s Day wishing they could hear their mother’s voice just once more. And I hope those who feel motherless realize the truth.
We are not motherless.
We may not be able to hold their hands, send flowers, or take them to brunch—but we are still daughters and sons.
Our mothers have simply been called elsewhere for now. It isn’t goodbye. It’s "see you later."
And I think of the day—God willing—when I’ll see her again.
I imagine arriving at the Pearly Gates with my hair in a messy bun or sweaty ponytail. I imagine her reaching up to fix it and saying, “I’ve missed you for so long.”
“I know, Mom,” I’ll reply, kissing her hand.
“You do?” she’ll ask with a familiar smile. “How do you know?”
“Because I’ve missed you just as long.”
For a moment, it will be just us again—me and my mom—sharing something sacred.
Her pain will be gone.
Her memories restored.
She’ll simply be my mom.
Loving me. Showing me. Fixing my hair.
Because that’s what mothers do.
And I’ll let her—because that’s what daughters do.

11/01/2026

It's often said that raising a child takes a community, and Jolie's community is her family, aspiring doctors, and their partners. Despite their busy schedules, they dedicated endless time to taking her to the park, daycare, and entertaining her when I couldn't. People often remark on her easygoing personality, which sometimes makes me feel guilty. She's that way because she's had to be, making sacrifices without realizing it. She was frequently the first at daycare and the last to leave. There were days I left for the hospital before she woke and returned after she was asleep. During times when her dad was working abroad, and I was in a different city, I wouldn't see her for days. Even so, she's a sweet, happy, and loving toddler. My fourth year of medical school has been filled with easier rotations, free time, and vacations, giving us a chance to make up for lost time, which I've cherished. However, I know a medical career involves a lifetime of sacrifices, not just for the individual but for the whole family. I hope Jolie learns the importance of compassion and working for the greater good. Most of all, I hope she'll be proud to call me her mom. To our family and friends who have supported us, I'm eternally grateful. Jolie wouldn't be the incredible girl she is without you.

10/01/2026

The Man They Mistook for the Janitor

At his son's exclusive school's Career Day, Frank, dressed in work clothes and driving an old truck, stood out among the luxury cars.

A well-dressed man, seeing Frank's dirty hands, assumed he was staff and directed him to a restroom.

Frank, with a booming voice, clarified he was there for Career Day, as Leo's father.

For three decades, Frank had been an electrical lineman, working in harsh conditions. After his wife's death, he raised Leo, a scholarship student, in a world of wealth.

The presentations were modern and focused on money. Leo seemed ashamed.

Then Frank spoke. No flashy presentation, just himself.

He explained that he climbs power lines so people can use their devices. He said that without the grid, their virtual world disappears.

He recounted a time he worked in a blizzard to restore power for a woman on a ventilator, risking his life.

He wasn't motivated by money, but by the need to help others.

A student mocked his job as "blue-collar" work.

Frank responded that when the power fails, they will need people like him.

A girl spoke up, praising her garbage collector father, who was essential during the pandemic.

Leo then joined his father, introducing him as the "toughest man alive."

The room erupted in applause.

On the drive home, Leo looked at the power lines and said he wanted to study engineering to build infrastructure like his dad.

We often value technology and finance while ignoring the people who build and maintain our world.

The next time you see a worker in a hard hat, acknowledge them.

Because without them, nothing works.

10/01/2026

People frequently ask how my ex, his wife, my husband, and I co-parent so well. The answer is always the same: We simply love our daughter. Seriously, it's that easy. We all love her, and that will never change. No child should be caught in the middle, used as a tool, or forced into adult conflicts. She didn't ask to be born, nor did she choose our divorce. Why make her life harder by making her choose which parent to love?

My daughter calls her stepmother "Mommy," and that's fine because she is a mother to her. She's always there, cares for her, plays with her, teaches her, gives her love, and does everything a mother does. She loves her as her own. It takes a special woman to embrace a child she didn't give birth to and become their mother.

I see women say they wouldn't let their child call another woman "Mom," but if your ex has a partner who loves your child and helps raise them, why wouldn't you let them call her "Mommy"? Why force your child to choose who they love? I'd never tell my daughter she can't call her stepmother "Mommy" because it would hurt her. She's her mommy all the time.

Sometimes you have to let go of the small stuff to help your child grow into a great person. My daughter isn't the only one who loves her stepmother; I do too. She's one of my best friends, and I depend on her. She's strong, and I'm grateful for her.

Don't tell me peaceful co-parenting isn't possible because it is. I live it every day. It takes a village to raise a child, and I'm thankful for mine. Are you?

10/01/2026

At 78, I experienced something last week that broke me, but ultimately rebuilt me.

In December, I broke my hip after a fall. I spent two weeks in Heritage General Hospital, Room 402, alone, staring at the ceiling and wishing for visitors.

My three children are successful, living the lives I worked tirelessly to provide. They sent gifts: an iPad I didn't understand, a pricey flower arrangement, and fleeting text messages.

The hardest part was 8:00 PM. The time when families leave, and the hallways become silent, making you feel forgotten.

Last Thursday, no one came. The nurse pitied me. I fought back tears.

Then, at 8:45, a teenager, maybe 17, with a worn hoodie and a backpack, appeared in my doorway, lost.

He was looking for another room. He saw my untouched dinner and the empty chair.

He said, "You look like you're having a rough night, sir."

I, trying to maintain my pride, dismissed him.

But he stayed. He sat down.

"My grandma hated hospital silence," he said. "Said it tries to swallow you whole."

His name was Malik. He was a high school senior, working to help his mom. He wanted to be an engineer.

He came back the next night, and the next.

He didn't bring gifts. He brought himself, his time, his homework. He helped me with the iPad. We talked. He helped other patients. The nurses called him "The 8:30 Angel."

I asked him why. "You don't owe me anything. You have a whole life out there."

He said, "My grandma told me: Love isn't the big expensive stuff on Instagram. It's the five extra minutes. The minutes you don't have to give, but you give anyway."

Yesterday I was discharged. My children sent expensive gifts, but Malik was the one who showed up.

We're told we're divided, but Malik didn't see those divisions. He just saw a lonely man who needed five minutes.

My own family couldn't spare an hour, but this kid, with every reason to be jaded, chose kindness.

At 78, I learned kindness isn't something you're born with or something you can buy. It's a choice. It's the minutes we give when we could easily walk away.

Next time you see someone alone, don't just send a message.

Give them your five minutes.

09/01/2026

I messed up big time today. My husband shipped out this morning, but I was in the wrong spot to see him off. I rushed to the correct park, but the ship was already disappearing.

I sprinted with my sign, desperate to be seen. I knew I wouldn't catch up and started crying. A man on a bike saw me and offered to help. He had me hop on, and we sped down the path, managing to see the ship's final moments.

Afterward, I walked back to my car, still upset. A woman and her husband approached me, and she offered a comforting hug. She stayed with me for a while and gave me her number. Then, another woman ran over to offer support, sharing her contact info and saying her wife was also on the ship.

I'm incredibly thankful for these three strangers. Their kindness truly brightened my day. Thank you to those wonderful people.

09/01/2026

A new mother, exhausted and bleary-eyed, carries her baby through Target, her hair in a messy bun. She stops to consider a dress on sale, wondering if it would hide her post-baby body. "Twenty-five dollars is a lot," she thinks, putting the dress back. She overhears two women, well-rested and smiling, shopping with ease, their carts full and lattes in hand. A wave of envy washes over her.

"I really miss that," she murmurs, pushing her cart toward the diaper aisle, kissing her sleeping baby.
******
The woman browses the sale racks, filling her cart. Though grateful for her visiting friend, she longs to be home in bed. This outing was meant to distract her, but she's surrounded by pregnant women and mothers with babies. Sipping her latte, she throws a purse in her cart, fighting back tears. She touches her belly, remembering the life that once grew there. Her gaze falls on a tired mother, kissing her baby and heading for diapers.

"I really miss that," she thinks, joining her friend in the dressing room.
********
A teenager rolls her eyes and sighs. "Mom, it wouldn't be in the JUNIORS section if it wasn't okay! You're so ridiculous! I can't wear anything cool!" Her mother eyes the floral halter top, considering its straps and length. "Honey, if it was a little longer..." she trails off as her daughter storms away. She follows, tossing the top into the cart. She sees a toddler's joyful squeals. The mother picks him up, hugging him.

"I really miss that," she thinks.
*******
The toddler's mom hugs her son. After months of teething and sleepless nights, she's starting to feel better. Little Man slept for seven hours last night. Seven whole hours! She feels almost human after coffee and a quick shower. One good day almost erases the bad ones. Maybe things are changing. She puts her son back in the cart, kisses him, and heads to checkout.

"Thank God for one. good. day." she thinks with a smile.
*****************
The elderly cashier, Miss Betsy, reaches for a Target dog sticker as a young mother approaches. After sixty years of work, she can't retire. Her joints ache, but she finds joy in the interactions she'd miss in her quiet apartment.

She gives the receipt and sticker to the mother and toddler, blowing kisses to the boy. He giggles.
She compliments the woman with a full cart. "That purse is lovely! It will work with every season!"
She winks at the mother with the pouting teenager (who didn't get the halter). Miss Betsy gives the receipt to the mom, then addresses her daughter.
"Thank God for every day you have your mother. I lost mine twenty years ago, and I miss arguing with her every day."
As the teenager rolls her eyes and says "yes ma'am," Miss Betsy closes her lane and takes her break. With tears and memories, she whispers:

"I really miss that."

09/01/2026

Two years ago today, I took my first steps after getting new lungs, ten days post-transplant. Before the surgery, my lungs were failing, causing muscle loss and swelling.

During the operation, the doctors discovered my lungs were severely adhered to my chest wall, almost completely stuck with thick scar tissue. They almost stopped the surgery due to the risk, but they persevered, and things improved once my old lungs were removed.

Post-surgery, a frightening complication arose. The bandages were too tight, preventing my new lungs from fully expanding. This led to fluid buildup, pneumonia, and a blood clot. Two days later, I was rushed back to surgery and put on ECMO to survive, a dangerous procedure. My breathing and health immediately improved once the bandages were loosened.

They then re-bandaged me correctly and left my chest open for several days to accommodate swelling. However, due to blood thinners, I bled extensively, receiving over 460 units of blood, replacing my entire blood volume more than twice.

Even after that, recovery was difficult. I battled infections, blood clots, and had to rebuild my muscles. A stroke from an epidural affected my vision and fine motor skills, but miraculously, my eyesight returned, and I slowly regained hand control.

While lung transplant patients typically stand within a day, it took me ten days, primarily because I was comatose. I'll never forget the feeling of my new lungs filling with air for the first time in nearly fifteen years.

Six months later, I completed a 5K. It's been an incredible journey.

08/01/2026

This morning, my ex-husband's new wife sent me a picture, and I spent a good ten minutes in the grocery store parking lot looking at it.

Chelsea had our daughter Brynn in matching pink overalls and butterfly shirts, with perfect hair and bows, both of them beaming like they were in a magazine. I, on the other hand, was in my car, covered in coffee stains from my work shirt, completely drained after a night shift at the hospital.

I'm the mom who forgets school forms. The one who shows up to school events in surgical pajamas, without a chair because I forgot it. Chelsea is the mom who plans meals for the entire week and probably irons jeans. When Tom married her, it felt like a painful blow—like I'd been replaced with a better version of myself.

Brynn would come home talking about Chelsea's homemade granola bars or how she does "those braids from the videos," and I'd smile, secretly worrying if they liked her more than me.

But when I finally confided in my sister, she said something that changed my perspective:

"You're not competing. You're complementing."

Chelsea brings extra snacks to games… and a spare folding chair for me because she knows I'll forget mine. I bring spontaneous ice cream runs, messy laughter, and late-night talks when Brynn can't sleep.

Last week Brynn asked if we could all go costume shopping together for Halloween because “you and Chelsea always find the coolest stuff.”

This blended-family situation still feels strange sometimes—like a puzzle that doesn't belong together, but somehow works. But when I looked at that picture again, it finally made sense: Brynn isn’t choosing between us. She’s just lucky enough to be loved by both of us.

08/01/2026

Last fall, my mom got a rare cancer diagnosis, which was a total surprise because no one in our family has ever had it.

She’s been visiting from Croatia for nearly a month. During a walk, I told her I felt bad she was spending her time cleaning and cooking. I wanted her to have fun.

She replied that she was having fun, enjoying every moment.

I didn’t believe her, especially about the cleaning.

She said she never thought she’d be here, seeing her grandkids or me again, so she does enjoy cleaning and every moment.

I want to live that way, appreciating even the boring parts of life.

Why does it take something like a cancer diagnosis to make us truly appreciate every second?

08/01/2026

Tonight, after work, a man approached me in the Tallaght Shopping Centre Car Park. He knocked on my car window and asked for money for a burger, explaining he was homeless. I initially said I had no change.

He responded politely, thanking me and apologizing. As he walked away, I watched him head towards McDonald's in Tallaght Square. I wondered if he was genuinely hungry, or perhaps seeking drugs. I drove over and saw him searching for coins on the ground. I told him I'm sometimes hesitant to give money to the homeless, fearing it's used for drugs or alcohol. I apologized and offered to buy him a burger.

He was very grateful. Inside McDonald's, I learned his name was Nathan. I told him to order whatever he wanted. He got a Big Mac Meal, and I encouraged him to go large. He was very polite, even asking for salt and ketchup. We sat and talked. Nathan shared that he had lost his brother and sister recently. He sleeps rough in a sleeping bag. I asked to take his picture to show that not all homeless people are addicts or criminals; some are genuinely struggling. Where will he get his next meal? What does he face daily? Helping him took just 20 minutes and a few euros. As I left, he thanked me.

I know some will accuse me of seeking attention, but those who know me know that's not true. I simply wanted to help someone. You never know when your own circumstances might change.

Never judge on appearances!

Perhaps this experience will change people's perspectives.
😞
Credit Liamie Marum

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